Many Doors
by mollylyn5
Summary: Years from now, Jim and Pam are divorced after the death of Cecelia, and Jim's stepdaughter, Jen, is dealing with some painful changes. Who better to help her than... Michael Scott? Also, Dwight's supposedly... dead?
1. Chapter 1: Tombstone

**This is my very first FanFiction. As in, ever. So I hope you enjoy it – review? :) It ****takes place about twenty years from where the show is now. What's happened to everyone?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Office. There. Glad we got that out of the way.**

My first sighting of the old man was by the side of the gravel road, near a sign that boasted the words "SCHRUTE FARMS" in faded, all-caps lettering. He was knelt over what appeared, at first, to be just a rock. And I would have kept going, except then he turned around. The face was one of the saddest I'd ever seen. My five years of practicing psychology told me that he was an honest man, well-intentioned and forgiving.

I decided to stop. I pulled over, but left the car running, and hopped out, raising puffs of dust in the Pennsylvania summer air.

"Hey," I called. "You alright?"

He shook his head, and when he spoke his words came out nasally. "No."

I then saw that the rock was a tombstone, simple and square. The carved words read-

"This is Dwight Schrute's so-called grave. And I would like to tell you that if you are alive and reading this, then I AM NOT DEAD."

Sheesh. Talk about denial.

I placed a hand on the old man's back and knelt down so I was at eye level with him. "Who was he?"

"He," he choked out, "he was my coworker. My trusted companion, my – my – I'm sorry, I can usually think of an analogy. But anyways, it _couldn't_ have happened like this. It shouldn't."

My thoughts faltered, as his words brought up stirrings of my own regretful heartaches. But I was in Dr. Hawthorne mode now, and pushed my own "Jen" thoughts aside.

"I know it's hard to accept, but I'm sure he knew that you loved him."

"God, I never told Dwight I did. Besides, Ryan was always the office gay." He snorted. "I remember one time, oh, about twenty years ago when I received a serious foot injury from my Foreman Grill, he got a concussion while going to drive me into work. And when we took him to the hospital, he couldn't bear for me to leave him."

Something about this conversation seemed vaguely familiar. I couldn't place where I had heard it, though, and decided it wasn't important, disregarding it altogether. I just focused on trying to cheer the man up.

"You must have had some good times together."

"Oh God, yeah." I finally saw a smile.

"Well, just try to relive those, alright? And I know it's hard now, but the grief will pass. Would you like to talk about him – Dwight – some more?"

He shook his head. "No, not right now."

"That's fine. But listen," I continued, fumbling around in my pocket, "Here's my business card. I'm Dr. Jen Hawthorne, a psychologist. But I worked in Human Resources and was trained in grief counseling before that."

His face took on a form of repulsion, and I started to ease away. "Something wrong?"

The expression cleared. "No – no, I'm fine." He took the card and stood up. "I should probably get home." His eyes looked as though they would spill tears at any minute.

I patted his back. "Call me anytime… um…"

"My name's Michael. Michael Scott."

Again, the name rang a small bell. I wrestled with my normally good memory for a few moments, then gave up again.

I opened the door to my car and waved. "You need a ride?"

"No, my girlfriend's picking me up."

But he was lying. As I drove away, I saw him in my rearview mirror, walking alone to the east. He reached into his pocket and withdrew what appeared to be a bobble head toy. Drying his eyes, I saw him clutch it until I had to turn away.


	2. Chapter 2: Memories

That night, back in my apartment, I sorted through the freezer, looking for something other than a Lean Cousine meal to eat for dinner. Which was stupid, because I did the shopping. If I wanted something else so bad, I should just buy it.

But I've never been too fond of change. God knows that's all my life has really been.

I leaned back against the cold edge of the counter, trying to push away the unwanted memories. And it worked, temporarily. But I knew they were always there – hidden, like the socks that are magically lost in the laundry. Something so small, with so much broken impact. Memories that had me shaking on the ground, sobbing like a little girl again.

And here they came, tonight. I decided I wasn't hungry and slammed the freezer shut.

I needed someone to talk to.

_Like, a psychiatrist? _I smirked at the thought. For some reason, people thought that just because I helped them with their problems meant that I didn't have any of my own. That since my life was so perfect, I could afford to bear the weight of all their tragedies.

Well, maybe that's how it was for some people. For me, though, other's problems simply smothered the twisted cries of mine.

God. I sounded like a depressed Little House on the Prairie character, just waiting for "Pa" Ingalls to swoop in and save the day.

Which was not even close.

I never really had a father figure growing up. Well, I obviously had one, but he was a good-for-nothing jerk who drank away all of my mother's money, then "thanked" her by abuse later. She finally gathered the courage to leave him when I was eleven.

Four years later, at a gas station in Scranton, she dropped a small carton of mixed berry yogurt. And when a tall man with unkempt brown hair handed it to her, his eyes were misted with tears.

Enter Jim Halpert, husband – not to mention paper supplier, no less – extraordinaire. My mother claims he saved her life; I claim he disrupted our family. He was just _too _perfect. _Too _handsome. _Too _funny. _Too_… not my father. And he never would be. My dad had his chance, and he blew chunks. So Jim just waltzed in like the stud he is, trying to make up for something already dead and buried.

Anyway, he already had kids of his own, two of them, with his ex-wife Pam. The oldest was named Cecilia; the younger of the pair John. Cecelia died in a horrible plane crash when she was nine. But her brother and parents survived, and the Halperts' marriage crumbled from there, culminating in a messy divorce.

John chose to live with Jim, leaving Pam all alone. We bonded quickly – I was almost like the older sister he had lost.

But John… nobody had heard from him in two weeks. Which was weird, and frustrating, especially because I needed him more than ever right now. I wanted to tell him about Michael, the man I met by the side of the road, and the Coke can that exploded on me earlier at lunch. I wanted to share secrets and stupid jokes, just like we used to.

I watched pointless TV for a few hours, ate a dry-tasting Pop-Tart, then decided to go to bed early. I was hoping I wouldn't have another of the nightmares that seemed to be intruding my dreams more and more frequently these days (or nights, rather).

But, just because I have such amazing luck, I did. One of the worst ones yet, actually.

It was about Cecilia. About the stories I had heard from when she died.

_The plane hovers in the nighttime air, where the little girl draws rainbows and flowers contentedly in her seat. Her mother brushes soft curls out of her eyes and smiles at the child's emotionless art._

_But in an instant, it is all taken by a cruel spark of fate. Stars glitter like diamonds in the sky, a small hand reaches for her father's sleeve. A massive body of machinery dips down at the speed of light, sending dreams tumbling and love shattered. No one picks up the pieces._

_Fire meets water, blood spurts across the length of time. A corpse's shadow falls on happiness, where a scream, a scream still rings in the blood-tinged air._


	3. Chapter 3: Phone Calls

**Sorry I haven't updated in awhile… Hope you enjoy! DISCLAIMER: Yeah, 'cause I suddenly gained ownership of The Office since the last chapter. Not. I still don't own anything.**

When I was little—like, way back in kindergarten—my teacher asked us a question way too complex for our little peanut-butter-thumbprinted brains.

"How many doors do you hope to open in your life?" Her eyes swept over us intently, fully anticipating an aura of amazement as we savored the opportunity to think deep, philosophical thoughts.

I glanced around my desk cluster. Sharon was shading in the flower on her sparkly plastic folder. Cassie perseveringly plucked at a stubborn hangnail. And Rob jammed a finger up his nose, diggin' for precious gold.

They obviously had no idea, or interest, in the proposition.

Whereas me? Me, I scrunched my nose and chewed my pencil until rubber flakes jammed my throat. I liked the sound of the words, how there was something you had to peel back to reveal the raw and liberating truth.

"Think about it," she said again, and this time, I swore her emerald eyes landed on me. "Think about all the doors. You can't just sit back and expect life to hand you the keys."

By the time Mom had agreed to a life full of eternal bliss with the equally blissful Jim, I thought I had it pretty much figured out. Though some of the bolts were rusty, and the handles jammed with wads of ABC gum.

_Ooo, really getting in-depth here now, aren't we, _I thought cynically to myself, tapping a pencil restlessly in my office on Thursday morning. _Nice metaphor. You just have it all figured out, don't you?_

My phone display flashed. I plucked the reciever off of its base and let the pencil fall to the ground.

"Dr. Jen Hawthorne."

"Good morning, Jen!" It was my overly-optimistic receptionist, Cindi. "Sorry, I just got in. You have two new messages!"

Only she would make that sound like a good thing. It was probably my cigarette-butthole of a boss, shoving more meetings down my throat.

"Go on."

"Just two men seeking an appointment. One is Michael Scott. And the other left his name as, uh, 'Nard-Dog.'"

_Michael?_ For some reason, my ears perked at the name. I had been hoping he would call; he seemed so lonely.

Cindi recited both of their numbers, and I proceeded to give them both a call back.

I tried Michael first. It went straight to voicemail.

"Michael Scott. Regional Manager, Dunder Mifflin Paper Co., Scranton, Pennsylvania. Leave a message. Smell ya later!"

Witty.

I waited for the beep, then left my message. "Hey Michael, it's Jen. I'd be happy to set up an appointment. Don't hesitate to call back; my office hours are from eight to six. See you soon!"

And now… uh… Nard-Dog. He picked up on the third ring.

"Andrew Bernard. How's it hangin'?"

Oh my.

"Just fine, thank you. Andrew—"

"Andy is fine. Or Drew. Or, of course, Nard-Dog."

"Uh-huh, of course—Andy. Listen, this is Dr. Jen Hawthorne—"

"Oh… yeah." His tone softened. "Listen, Dr. Hawthorne, my wife made me call you. The Nard-Dog doesn't need a shrink."

Which, of course, meant that he did.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to force you to make an appointment, but it might be a good idea if you did anyway. You know, just to clear whatever may be on your mind."

His voice was cool now, the joking gone. "I don't think I'm up for that, _Dr. _Hawthorne. Goodbye."

_Click._

Well, you can't win 'em all, I guess. But it still upset me, whenever I lost a potential patient. Not just for money's sake, but for the caller's.

As if on cue, my phone began to ring. Not exactly in one of my best moods ever, I snatched it up and mumbled:

"Dr. Jen Hawthorne."

"Hey, Jen." A deep voice—Jim's. Great. Just great. He had probably closed another billion-dollar sale while I sat on my butt, picking at a useless lock to another door.

"Jim. Hi."

"Just thought I'd check in. Your mom was telling me you were feeling a little low lately."

_A little low? _Who even phrased things like that?

"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks, though."

"Listen, Jen—your mom and I, we really do miss hanging out with you. We were thinking of having another picnic this weekend."

Oh god, no. I knew my mom's picnic agenda all to well; a fancy, freshly ironed tablecloth; a prime serving of filet mignon with the best silver I'd have stayed up the night before polishing. And if someone cracked a dish or knocked over their fruit spritzer, it might as well have been the end of the world.

Plus, there was nothing to talk about. Jim kept his past very private, and my mom had turned into such a perfectionist that it was nearly impossible to carry on a rational, positive conversation.

But still, I didn't want to disappoint Jim. There was just something in his voice, a special quality that made him a natural people-pleaser.

"Maybe. I'll think about it. I'm pretty swamped," I explained, flipping through my relatively empty planner. "Oops… I'm getting another call. G'bye."

"Bye, Jen. Hope you can make it. Love you."

_Click. _Only this time, I hung up first.

I thought back to kindergarten. I felt my teacher's gaze lock mine; savored the feeling of sitting in the driver's seat of life.

Then I decided it was all a load of bullcrap, and went to have a session with my next patient. Screw "different doors." I needed to focus on polishing the room I was stuck in right now.


End file.
